Chapter Text
one / umbral
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In theory it should be within astrology’s purview– to trade umbral growth for astral stasis, to slow or even stop the hand of time– but, in a cosmic irony, he hasn’t the time to refine the technique. Instead, after each attempted summoning Urianger lays his own hands on the other man’s body, over all of the seams where crystal advances on flesh, pours forth his own aether and wills it to stop.
It exhausts him, truth be told. Still, he’s sure it’s nothing compared to what the Exarch must experience.
“Breathe,” he murmurs. “But another moment, and ‘twill be done.” His hand rests over the Exarch’s heart– his heart, where the crystal of the Tower must not be allowed to reach, lest it claim him too early– while with his other arm he holds the smaller man upright. Every time, the Exarch tries to sit straight through the healing, and every time he ends up holding on to Urianger, shaking in his arms. This time he lets his head drop forward onto Urianger’s shoulder while he takes his slow shuddering breaths.
He deserves better than this. Better than half-researched healing, better than merely borrowing time until the sacrifice. Better than two centuries of secrets and his only confidant a man already surfeited with them.
But it’s done for now. It’s done, and Urianger finds himself stroking the other man’s hair as he holds him. Gently he turns the Exarch’s face up– that fire-red hair is silvering at the tips, and there’s a slash of crystal carved across his cheek. That’s new. Without thinking, Urianger skims his thumb over the sharp angle of it.
He’s about to ask whether it pains him when the Exarch kisses him, hesitant, then desperate. Urianger barely has time to react before he pulls back again just as suddenly.
“I,” he says, “forgive me, I don’t know why I– I shouldn’t have–”
“Thou hast done naught to require forgiveness,” Urianger says. His voice is calm, but his mind races. He sees two men in one– the Crystal Exarch, admired leader, selfless protector; G’raha Tia, lost in time, still so young and yet so burdened. Which part of him was it that kissed him like that? Why? Has it been those two centuries since anyone held him? And is it crueler to turn him away now, or to accept?
It’s too much. Too complicated. So much is complicated already– this, at least, need not be so.
Urianger catches him, turns his chin up again. “G’raha Tia,” he says, and watches his breath catch at the name. “Whatever thy need, thou shalt have it of me.”